the empty space that you create
by heretowinbitch
Summary: she hears his voice first, and for a moment beth finds it odd that she hadn't sensed his presence, felt him in her space the way she always seems to when he's near. but maybe she'd given up the right to feel him. maybe she'd given up everything.


_those bitches_.

it's her own fault, really.

she'd been kidding herself all along, thinking that this minor act of **civil disobedience** — gluten and nuts, what had she been _thinking _? — would be enough, would sate her **hunger ** for a life she'd had to leave behind. but she was _trying_. beth had done her level best to get back into the swing of her new ( _old _) normal, throwing herself back into PTA events and school parties and the kids' extra curriculars. and it had been working for a little while, she'd told herself, even bringing a smile to her face as she laid out the plans for all of the fall themed goodies she was going to make, reveling in a little bit of _rebellion_ at the thought of packing them full of gluten.

somewhere between picking balloons and paper plates, it had begun to slip a little —that mask of normalcy she was wearing like a badge of honor. and then she saw the chapstick, and then she saw the security guard, and everything slowed down for just a taste of the **thrill** she was missing.

she wasn't _satisfied_, but it was a start.

so she'd thrown herself into baking, making perfect cookies and decorating cupcakes to look like turkeys, and her smile was a little bit wider, and she felt a little bit prouder of her accomplishments, even if only in the realm of _treats_.

but _those damn bitches_

she'd felt the drop in her stomach, that old familiar feeling of **dread**, in the moment of her approach. the snack table was littered with plastic container after plastic container boasting gluten and nut free, and somehow, _somehow_ she managed to stand there, expression mild, and not break down in the middle of jane's school as they explained their worries, and how they'd packed up the treats for her to take home. how had she ever thought of these women as her _friends _? they were just **cowards ** who delivered their barbs underhanded and behind her back. all of that work, all of it down the drain.

literally.

she'd barely made it through the door before the edges began to _fray_, and she could feel it _unraveling_ a little bit with each step she'd taken into the kitchen, feel the thread pulled out from under her as she **ripped ** lids from containers, **shoving** treats down the drain, **stuffing ** them into the garbage disposal and letting it all **explode** from within her in a wave of wracking sobs. she **jabbed ** the spoon handle down, **pushing ** all of her work farther into the drain, along with her _sanity_, and vaguely wondered if she'd _miss_ it.

* * *

the cool breeze cuts a little bit deeper than she'd like, paying no mind to her blazer and the way it's supposed to provide _some_ protection from the cold. emma doesn't seem bothered by the chill in the air, though, so beth remains perched upon her bench — watching, but not quite watching.

she hears his voice first, and for a moment beth finds it odd that she hadn't _sensed_ his presence, _felt_ him in her space the way she always seems to when he's near.

but maybe she'd given up the **right ** to feel him.

maybe she'd given up _everything_.

it hits her like a ** punch** to the gut all the same, head whipping back, eyes blinking up at him as though _ maybe _ he's a figment of her imagination, maybe her **misery** had drawn him out of the reaches of her mind in an attempt to provide _comfort_. she's not that lucky, beth knows, and works hard to situate the mask of calm back over her features, to hide her reaction to him _from him_, because she knows he'll use it against her, here, now, after her claims of it being **over**, after she'd _dismissed_ him, blocked his number, and he'd still managed to **find** her.

( not that it would have been difficult. she's not sitting at the same bench where they used to _meet_, but it's the same park, and maybe a part of her wanted to be found, but that part will never speak up over the part of her that's indignant, defensive, and completely **frazzled** by his presence )

and it's infuriating, because he sees _right through_ her — just like he always does — noting her **misery**, noting the soul-sucking reality of her life. beth boland, housewife and PTA mom had died that day in a fine & frugal as she held a toy gun and screamed like some kind of crazy vigilante. he _knows_, but it doesn't make a difference, and she can't **let ** it.

"what are you doing here?" she asks with all of the indifference she can muster, and thinks, _maybe _ she's pulling it off despite the way it feels as though she's ** falling apart** at the seams — as though all of the calm she'd hoped to obtain here at the park with her kid, all of the post-breakdown _breathing_, is out the window as soon as he's in close proximity. and she's glad that he's on the other side of the bench, grateful for that **barrier** between them because it makes it easier to avoid looking at him, leaning into him, _touching _ him...

"i tried to call," he says, and there's something in the tone of his voice that catches her off guard, snags her attention sharply. it's not harsh or angry or **frustrated ** in the way she'd expect him to be, all things considered. it's casual, a statement of fact, but not **cold ** in the way he gets when he's closed off. and for a moment she lets herself wonder if maybe now that he'd opened himself up to her, she'd always be able to _see through_ _him_, too. the thought **terrifies** her.

so she tells him she blocked his number, and he laughs — he _laughs_. and it's still a little softer around the edges than she'd expect, not quite coming at her on the defensive, and she's almost in **awe** of the way things have changed so much and somehow not at all. it feels like _lifetimes _ have passed since she'd seen him last, but he's teasing her the way he always does, and she still can't find the **bitterness** she's been waiting for even when he calls her **cold**, and some how it infuriates her even more — that he can seem _so unaffected_ while she's crawling out of her _skin_. and maybe this is what she deserves, after all, to be made to feel **stupid**, because she'd done stupid things, and the most idiotic of all had been thinking she could let him go.

but she tells him she's good — she's _ great_. and even beth can hear the way the words don't quite ring true in the space between them, the space around them. she knows he hears it too, the way she's hanging on by a thread, and maybe if he gives it just a little **tug**, he might be able to draw her back in. but she's doing everything in her power to keep her eyes straight ahead, because if she looks at him, it's over, if he looks at _her_, it's over. the only way this works, the only way she doesn't slip right back into that **addiction** — because it's not just the thrill of the _life_ that's got her hooked, but the thrill of him — is if she doesn't have to see him again.

she hadn't looked at him when she told him it was over, she blocked his number because she didn't trust herself not to answer if he called.

and here she is, on the heels of a breakdown just trying to _breathe_, and he tracks her down.

and really — it's inevitable, _they're_ inevitable. so she shouldn't be so surprised. but she's trying _so hard_ to be strong, because she's worried about slipping, because it feels too good, and it would be so easy, and —

maybe he'd known it, too. maybe this is all a _test_.

but he wouldn't be there, wouldn't have gone through the trouble just to ** torment ** her. somehow, beth knows this. somehow she _knows_ he's not going to be cruel to her for cruelty's sake ( even if she might deserve it ). so he has her on that thread, gives her a little **tug**, and it's enough — it's _just enough _ to pull her back _ just a little_, to have her wondering.

so she turns around.

and _christ_, it's a bad idea. it feels like a thousand emotions are bearing down at her at once as she turns and gets a good look at him. and he's not looking at her, yet, but everything about him is painfully familiar, makes her heart ** ache** as she catches his profile, gaze moving to his lips automatically, involuntarily, _inevitably_. and then he's looking back at her, that smirk tugging at his lips like she's been **caught**, and _shit_, she wishes she'd never sat down at this bench because it's too much, too quick, too overwhelming. he stares at her with something unreadable in his eyes, but it's not indifference, it's not cold, and somehow that makes it all worse because wouldn't it be easier that way? **hatred ** would be so much better than whatever _this_ is.

he stares at her for too long, even as she demands he forfeit whatever information he'd come peddling, and it makes her _squirm_ a little beneath her skin where he always seems to situate himself, draws out the **flush** that always crawls across her skin when he looks at her like he's peeling her apart layer by layer, dismantling the armor she's so **painstakingly** crafted around herself.

but she can't dwell on that, not now. because he didn't show up at this park to prove that he can still get under her skin ( though he _is_ doing a great job ), he came to _warn_ her. and she doesn't have time — not to **dwell**, not to ask questions, not to let her gaze linger on him for one more silent _goodbye_ after she'd been unable to do so that day in her bedroom. she barely has time to get emma, call the sitter, and get _home_.

she unblocks his number on her way to the dealership.


End file.
